


All Hope [Out the Window]

by BeneficialAddiction



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint Barton is a crymaxer, Don't copy to another site, Getting Together, Just a little tho, Locked In, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Morning After, Nat drugged the boys, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Natasha is Not Impressed, Never Have I Ever, Sexy Times, You CANNOT lie to the Widow, change my mind, drinky drank drunk, meant what I said, natasha romanov has the patience of a saint, said what I meant, she had good reasons?, until she doesn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-07-09 06:50:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19883422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction
Summary: DAY 217 of the YEAR 2010I had thought that after the Hawk was shot in Stalingrad it would finally happen, but they continue to circle each other like wolves from separate packs, oblivious to the fact that they are entirely alone together in a world of their own making. They’ve been dancing to this tune for ages, yet neither one is willing to take the first step forward.I have lost all hope in mankind.Well... in these two men at least.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TakeTheShot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TakeTheShot/gifts), [lola381pce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lola381pce/gifts), [sassylane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassylane/gifts).



> With thanks to sassylane, Lola381pce, and especially TakeTheShot <3

Clint really should have known better, what with the way Tasha had looked at him as she slipped out the front door on her way to go ‘pick something up.’ There were all kinds of reasons that particularly vague phrase should have set off warning bells – like how she was normally so religious about keeping her personal safehouses fully stocked, or how she’d been threatening for months to lock him and Coulson up in a closet together if he didn’t come clean about how he felt. 

He just... never thought she’d actually do it. 

In his defense he doesn’t realize it’s happened for like, a couple of hours at least. Dropped off in Sweden to collect some files from an informant, they’d gotten into a little bit of trouble in Stockholm and fled to Sundsvall, where the Widow kept a small apartment near the airport. She’d offered it up easily enough – she does that nowadays for him and for Phil – though he doesn’t doubt that there will always be more than they’re aware of. Regardless, it’s well-positioned for the extraction that will have to come eventually, and easily defensible even with the ankle Clint had tweaked coming down off a rooftop. 

They've only been there half a day and are settled in for a long wait when Nat suddenly pops to her feet and heads for the door, grabbing pink sunglasses, a sunhat, and an enormous pink purse from the coat closet on her way. She offers little more than a short goodbye before taking off, and Clint doesn’t think twice when he hears the locks re-engage behind her. 

He should’ve known better. 

“How’s the ankle?” Phil asks as he comes back into the living room, looking Clint over suspiciously as though he’s been out here doing jumping jacks instead of sitting flopped out in the corner of the couch with his foot up on the coffee table. 

“It’s fine boss,” he insists, trying to ignore the warm little wriggle he gets in the pit of his belly when Coulson’s worried about him. “I just landed a little crooked. I don’t think it even qualifies as a sprain.” 

“Keep it up anyway,” he orders, turning to head toward the kitchen. “I’ll get you some ice.” 

Clint lets the smile tugging at his mouth come out for a minute while he’s gone, then sighs and scrubs his hands over his face. Nat’s right of course, she always is, but this crush has gone on for way too long. He really should get over it, he just... hasn’t really figured out how yet. Every time he thinks the lust and the love and the affection have died down to comfortable familiarity and friendship something happens to blow it all to hell, like Coulson being a total badass and sending Clint’s motor from an idle to a full-out roar, or like now, when he just does something simple like care about him. 

He knows it’s not a high bar ok, but Coulson’s still one of about two people in his life who’ve met that bar. 

Pretty pathetic right, falling for your handler? He’s surprised Nat hasn’t stabbed him with a fork or something for subjecting her to all the pining. 

But he can’t figure out how to turn it off. 

Blinking away his rather pitiful thoughts, he ooches his butt over a little to give Coulson room to drop down on the couch beside him, watches as he leans forward and drapes a bag of frozen peas over his bare foot. 

“Any swelling?” 

“Nah, no bruises yet either,” Clint replies, practically by wrote, because Coulson’s dressed down to the t-shirt he’d been wearing under his button-up and it’s come loose from his slacks in the back. 

The muscles at the small of his back are all tight, Clint can see it, and his shoulders are just as bad as he sits back up again, sinking into the couch cushions with a quiet sigh of his own. Instead of bringing up the debrief like Clint expects him to, he just sets a paper plate down between them, piled high with ham sandwiches, and starts methodically eating his way through them. 

Clint swallows hard – sure, Nat isn’t here so debriefing now would be kinda dumb, but he thinks that there’s probably other reasons that Coulson is keeping quiet, focusing on the television in front of them instead of on anything else. He’d flicked on a stupid cartoon when Nat had tossed the remote at him, something he doesn’t think Senior Agent Phillip J Coulson would ever watch, so he’s more than a little worried. 

He can read stress and exhaustion on Coulson’s face as easily as he can feel it in his own body. 

“Extraction in two or three days then?” he asks, handing over the remote control in exchange for a sandwich of his own. 

“That’s what Fury says,” Phil replies, words muffled around a bite. “Jets are all diverted to Australia and South America to deal with Operations Tiger Shark and Irma.” 

“Probably a good thing,” Clint offers, continuing when Phil quirks an eyebrow in his direction. “Give us all some time to recuperate.” 

“I’m putting in for a week of down time for both you and Natasha as soon as we get back,” Phil promises, his eyes on Gravity Falls which he still hasn’t turned off, guilt flushing pink across his cheekbones. “I know we’ve been running you back-to-back for too long.” 

“And you too,” Clint says, because yeah, that was more what he meant and no, he’s not surprised that Coulson left himself off that list. 

The man himself doesn’t reply because of course he doesn’t, so Clint just settles lower into the couch and concentrates on his sandwich. 

Three hours later neither of them have really moved when Clint’s phone chimes a text message. Digging it out of his pocket, he turns it over and reads the _all clear_ from Natasha, then waits patiently for the rest of the message to come through. 

He doesn’t have to wait long. 

**N:** _Met up with an old friend – going dark. Be back in time for extraction._

Clint grins, shows Phil the phone before sending back a quick _have fun_ with a wink and a few dirty emojis for good measure. He knows the kind of ‘old friends’ Natasha keeps and the types of things she likes to do to come down off a mission – he's a little surprised she’s chosen to do it _now_ while they’re still technically on SHIELD time and not sure when extraction will come, but he’s not exactly worried about it. 

Nat can take care of herself, and he’s hardly going to complain about having some time alone with Coulson. 

Although he... ugh, god, stop it Clint! 

Anyway. 

It’s another hour before reality sets in and panic tickles the back of his neck. 

“I’m too tired to cook,” Phil says with a yawn as the sky outside the apartment windows starts to turn pink and purple with the setting sun. “Want to order in?” 

“You gonna be the one to invite a delivery boy up to the Black Widow’s safehouse?” Clint asks offhandedly, more focused on getting himself upright and turned in the direction of the bathroom without putting too much weight on his bum ankle. 

“Good point. There’s a carry-out at the end of the block – I'll run down and grab something.” 

“Sure,” Clint agrees, waving him off when he takes a step in his direction to help him maneuver around the coffee table. “I’m fine Phil, I promise. Go, bring home some bacon. Or... whatever they have here, you know what I like.” 

Phil chuckles and grabs his jacket from the closet as Clint limps up the hall, and he doesn’t really think anything of the small sounds of locks and scanners as he pulls the bathroom door mostly shut behind him. He’s barely got his tac pants open, one hip braced against the sink to take his weight when Phil’s calling him back again. 

“Uh, Clint?” 

“What?” he hollers, because he’s really gotta pee at this point ok? 

Phil doesn’t respond right away, so he takes his chance to do that before zipping up again. 

“Do you think you could come try this?” 

Frowning, a little bolt of electricity zipping across his nerves, he rinses his hands and hobbles back into the hallway, drying them on the seat of his pants as he goes. 

“What’s wrong,” he asks when he finds Phil crouched in front of the door, peering at the knob. 

“I don’t think I’m coded to Natasha’s locks,” he says easily enough, even as a sudden feeling of dread settles heavily into the pit of Clint’s stomach, Natasha’s laughter floating through his head. “Want to give it a go?” 

Oh god, he doesn’t, he really, really doesn’t - she _wouldn’t..._

Only the lock flashes an angry red when he presses his thumb to the keypad, and again when he tries scanning his retina at the peephole. 

She totally did. 

“Heh, looks like we’re um... sorta locked in boss,” he pants nervously, his hands suddenly damp again with panic-sweat. 

“Oh.” 

Blinking, he turns to Phil who’d just sounding perfectly miserable and exhausted saying that, and tries to push his anxiety away. 

“Hey, no worries Sir, it’s not like we’re stuck here forever,” he says, aiming for cheery and sounding, to his own ears, like he’s missed it by a mile. 

Coulson doesn’t really respond, he’s got a sort of far-away, panicky look on his face before he blinks and the look is gone again. 

“No you’re right, it’s fine,” he says, turning away to hang his jacket up again. “We’re not due anywhere and we’re all safe. Natasha said she’d be back in contact before extraction, she’ll be able to come and retrieve us.” 

“Like luggage,” Clint says, because sometimes his mouth makes jokes before his brain can tell it to shut up. 

Coulson huffs a weird, resigned sort-of laugh, which makes him think maybe it wasn’t that funny. 

“Hey listen, I’ll cook us up something quick, yeah?” he offers, and it’s probably pretty telling that Phil doesn’t immediately argue. “Worst comes to worst I can do us some pancakes – Nat's bound to have chocolate chips stashed somewhere.” 

“Check the freezer,” Phil counsels, and Clint shoots him a grin. 

“You got it boss.” 

He’s... strangely relieved to find himself alone in the kitchen. Gives him a minute to breathe. While he mutters and curses at Natasha under his breath – seriously, what does she think this is going to accomplish - he can’t be too pissed at her either. She’d insisted they stop for some fresh groceries on the way in; milk, eggs, cheese, a bit of meat and veg, and combined with the shelf-stable staples she’d left from her last stay-over there’s plenty to do a nice, hearty fry-up. He’s pretty sure Coulson needs it as much as he does at this point, both for the nourishment and that warm, heavy, comfortable feeling good food can give you. 

The man works too hard. 

With his knife skills it only takes Clint a few minutes to get potatoes, carrots, and onions frying in a pan with some butter. He decides to save the eggs and bacon for breakfast and dices a hunk of corned beef instead, tossing it into the pan once the veggies have all softened. Salt and pepper to taste, a bit more butter to crisp things up, it’s all familiar and soothing the way that cooking can be for him, drawing his focus and his attention away from the problems threatening to overwhelm him. 

It’s stupid anyway. He feels like a kid for getting himself locked _inside_ an apartment (though he is _not_ unfamiliar with getting himself locked _out_ ). It’s not even like this is the first time he’s been shut up with _Coulson_ somewhere for a few days alone. It’s just... well, _Nat_ he supposes, because he won’t have put it past her to have set some sort of weird, matchmaking booby traps around the place, though he has no idea what something like that would even look like. 

And when she comes back to find out that nothing worked anyway, that he still hasn’t... 

Clint shudders at the prospect and immediately sets the back of his subconscious to planning how long he can survive in the vents around HQ - it’ll be a minimum of three and a half weeks before her wrath has cooled from the fallout on this one. 

Maybe if he bakes her some of those cherry-chocolate cheesecakes she likes... 

_‘Doesn’t matter,’_ he thinks as he dishes up supper and carries the bowls into the living room where Coulson’s turned on some Swedish reality TV series that looks a lot like Wipe-Out! He’s all bathed in the low, blue light of the television, making his eyes look bruised and tired, and Clint’s immediate gut reaction is to just wrap the guy up in a hug that lasts forever. 

No matter what happens, he’s not going to win this thing. 

Whatever game Nat’s playing, whatever she’s trying to push him toward, he just... he won’t risk what he has for that. 

Not when he has the most amazing handler an agent could ask for, not when he has a friend in his life that he trusts implicitly. 

Not when he can cross the living room and sit down on the couch beside him, feed him in return for a weary, grateful little smile, and lean in just enough to press their shoulders together, to offer all of the strength and support that he can give.


	2. Chapter 2

Phil wakes up slowly with a crick in his neck and the heavy weariness of being spread too thin hanging across his shoulders. Breathing in deep, he takes a moment to listen and feel out his surroundings before he quickly recalls where he is, the panic rushing back into his stomach all hot and sharp and electric when he remembers what’s happened. 

_Natasha._

Blinking his eyes open he finds that he and Clint have curled together in sleep, propping each other up on the couch and sitting far too close even to start off with. His head is resting on Clint’s shoulder and the archer’s got his arm laying along Phil’s thigh, palm up, like he’d been waiting for Phil to... 

Stupid. 

Scolding himself sharply, he sits up and does his best to stretch without waking the man beside him. He hadn’t lied – he was well aware that both Barton and Romanov were due for some downtime and that they were being run just as ragged as he was, but when he’d been daydreaming about a little vacation time this wasn’t what he’d had in mind. He knows how much Natasha cares about Clint, how important they are to each other, so he can’t understand why she keeps pushing this at him, why she keeps making not-so-subtle threats to do something exactly like this. 

He hadn’t believed her, and that was his mistake. 

Now he’s locked inside a safehouse with no way to leave until she sees fit to come collect him, with the expectation that he’ll make some sort of grand gesture and the ludicrous idea that Clint will somehow reciprocate. 

A part of him believes that she must have some sort of faith or trust in the whole situation. 

A larger part of him doesn’t understand how. 

He knows he’d be a catch for the right person, but he's not sure that Clint would think him a good match for himself. Phil’s not exactly the fit young Ranger he used to be, not even the same man he was when he was a junior agent. 

The archer snuffles in his sleep, turns further toward Phil like he wants him back, and he mutters a curse silently under his breath because it’s exactly that type of thinking that gets him into more trouble, that hurts so much he can’t stand it. He can name you any number of reasons why he’s fallen in love with the archer over the years, but the plain and simple fact is that they’re friends and coworkers, and he wouldn’t risk that for the world. 

He cares too much to make it a casual, easy offer – if he ever did tell Clint how he felt or ask him out to dinner, he knows for certain that everything he feels, all the years of want and love and affection and care would read across his face like a large-print children’s addition. 

It’s too late for all of this anyway. It’s a crisis he’s already had, multiple times, and he doesn’t need to have it again. Nothing’s changed, though he may be in danger of losing a very precious part of his anatomy on the Widow’s return, and he’s decided already against the risk. Clint’s too important to him, and as he hums and curls further toward Phil along the couch a familiar protective urge wells up inside his chest. 

“Clint,” he murmurs softly, wrapping a hand around his bicep. “Come on, wake up a minute.” 

“ ‘S matter b...” 

The word trails off into a hum, a soft little snore, and Phil shakes him again. 

“On your feet agent,” he urges gently, watching as Clint attempts to drag himself up from sleep and clamber off the couch. “You can’t sleep out here with that ankle. You can take the bed.” 

“...tired,” Clint mutters, wobbly on his feet, eyes still practically closed. 

“I know you’re tired,” he agrees, putting his hands on Clint’s shoulders and turning him around, steering him toward the bathroom. “Once you’re in bed you can go back to sleep.” 

“No,” he grumbles swaying into the darkened, spacious bedroom at the back of the apartment and shuffling toward bed. _"You’re tired.”_

“Yes, I’m tired,” Phil sighs, giving up when Clint comes to a stop at the foot of the bed and just pushing him toward it, watching him flop face-first into the pillows under a warm wave of affection. “So get your pants off and go to sleep.” 

Clint groans into the pillow, squirms around a bit, but gets his hands under his body and works at his belt before turning over onto his back. His eyes are still closed and he’s wriggling half-heartedly, so Phil takes pity on him and grabs the cuffs of his tacticals, dragging them down over his legs and tossing them onto the floor. 

“Can share,” Clint mumbles, rolling back over and worming his way toward the head of the bed, diving into the pillow. 

Phil blushes sharply and looks away, determined not to react to the sight of Clint’s ass swaying around in purple boxer-briefs. 

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” he says softly, his heart in his throat. 

In the hushed navy darkness of the bedroom he can’t make out the expression on his face, but he can hear the forlorn little sigh he makes in response. 

“Know that,” he murmurs, before turning over on his side, away from Phil to face the middle of the bed. “But it doesn’t _hafta_ mean anythin...” 

_Have to..._

Something about that doesn’t sound quite right, but Phil’s exhausted and his heart aches and he can’t think about this anymore tonight. The brass alarm clock beside the bed reads two-thirty-six, and it’s... it’s just so late. 

Sighing, his shoulders falling, he says to hell with it all and unbuttons his pants, pushing them down to the floor. Crawling into bed in his underwear and t-shirt, he gets the sheets shoved down toward their feet and throws one arm above his head, staring at the ceiling in the dark, just listening to Clint breathe. It’s a big bed – Natasha only stocks Kings – so it’s not like they’re in any danger of rolling on each other in the night, but he can already feel the pull to turn over and drag Clint in against his chest, to curl around him and kiss him and tell him all the things he’s kept close for so long. 

Stupid. 

“H’come it locks from the _inside_ anyway?” Clint mutters tiredly a few minutes later, after Phil thinks he’s already asleep. 

The question startles a soft chuckle out of him and he smiles. 

“A spider doesn’t stop their prey from climbing into the web Barton,” he replies quietly. “It stops them from leaving out again.” 

Clint breathes, shifts, and seems to move even closer to Phil despite the space between them. 

“Think she’ll eat us?” he slurs into the pillow, and Phil has to physically stop himself from rolling over, from reaching out to stroke his hair and hug him close. 

“Go to sleep Clint.”

**AVAVA**

Despite his misgivings, Phil actually sleeps really, really well that night on Natasha’s luxurious Egyptian cotton sheets and memory-foam mattress. He sleeps long, and deeply, and has pleasant dreams of heat and bare skin and a familiar body close by breathing quietly beside him. He wakes up slowly, unwilling to do so at all, and nuzzles into the curve of the shoulder he’s got his face pressed into, his hips making slow, lazy circles where he’s got his thigh thrown over someone else’s.

Aw hell. 

Squeezing his arm a little tighter around Clint’s middle on reflex, he stills himself and breathes in deep, filling his lungs with the warm, sleepy scent of him. Apparently he’d decided that going octopus in his sleep was acceptable, and now finds that he’s wrapped as close around the archer as he can get without flat-out lying on top of him. 

It’s not the first time he’s woken up pressed close to Clint’s side, not even the first time he’s woken up with a _completely inappropriate_ erection pressed to Clint’s side, but it still mortifies him. 

Clint hums, mutters something about being nice, then half turns to press his ass back against the cradle of Phil’s hips and he practically rolls off the bed in his effort to extract himself. 

“Come back, ‘s too early,” Clint grumbles, rolling again burying his face in the pillow, saving Phil the humiliation of being seen with his face red and his boxers tented. 

“It’s past ten,” he responds, self-salvage instincts kicking in before his brain does. 

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he swipes up the go-bag he’d dropped inside the bedroom door the night before and escapes to the bathroom. A cold shower does wonders for waking him up, _and_ calming him down. He actually, shockingly, feels a lot better for it once he’s climbed out despite the fact that he’s still got some knots in his shoulders, and almost catches himself smiling as he brushes his teeth. 

Lord, he’s a sad sack isn’t he, taking so much stupid, ridiculous happiness from a moment like that, from waking up cuddled around the man he loves. 

Downright creepy when you think about it, since Clint doesn’t know. 

Sure, it’s happened before, going both ways – biology happens to everyone after all – but they usually just groan and shove and slap at each other, make gagging noises and dramatic flails out of bed the way all other SHIELD agents do. It’s easier to make a joke out of it than anything, to tease the living hell out of your bedmate for the rest of the day and then forget about it, but instead Clint had... 

_‘Clint hadn’t anything,’_ he tells himself sternly. 

He'd been half-asleep and hadn’t meant anything saying that it was nice, or moving closer. 

Best to just pretend it never happened, like always. 

Clint still hasn’t emerged when Phil makes it to the kitchen, and he’s strangely grateful for it. He needs a moment alone, to reset and get his head on straight, and finding the coffee beans in the freezer, grinding them down and setting the pot to percolating helps him do that. By the time the machine is done dripping and he’s pouring two steaming mugs full of the high-octane dark roast Natasha favors he feels steadier on his feet and prepared enough to face the archer who comes stumbling in like a zombie without giving anything away. 

“Coffeeeeee,” he groans, making gimme hands as he approaches the kitchen island, dressed in a pair of SHIELD-issue sweats and a purple t-shirt that’s too tight across the chest. “I neeeeed it.” 

“It’s hot,” Phil warns, pushing the mug toward him, shaking his head when Clint promptly burns his tongue and whimpers. “Told you.” 

“Worth it,” Clint mumbles, buried so deep in the steam he’s inhaling that he’s practically blowing bubbles. 

Phil rolls his eyes fondly, settling onto a stool to check his emails on his phone. It’s quiet for a few minutes while Clint finishes his coffee, and he thinks it’s probably telling that the old ease and familiarity is back so quickly after what might have otherwise been a really awkward moment. Once he’s finished, Clint gets up to refill his mug and tops off Phil’s on his way to the fridge, alert enough now to start digging around for eggs and bacon. 

It’s a comfortable routine, breakfast, one they’ve run through hundreds of times, and he’s able to finally relax a little while Clint putters and bangs around, whisking up pancake batter. Not fifteen minutes later there are scrambled eggs and crispy bacon and fluffy chocolate chip pancakes to be had all around, and they both fall-to like SHIELD agents that have been worked too hard too long. It’s simple and uncomplicated and he’s struck by how much it just feels normal, like home to sit across from Clint and pass the syrup bottle back and forth, to listen to the clink of forks and make small talk about the state of the Latverian government. 

He ought to stop this. 

He's only hurting himself really, with all this pining. 

Well, Natasha would probably disagree and count herself among the casualties, but really, he ought to just accept things as they are. 

He and Clint are friends, good friends, very, very dear friends, and he wouldn’t lose this, what he has right now in this moment for much of anything really. It’s too important, means too much, and if all he ever gets in return is the smile that Clint beams at him when he agrees to help wash and dry the dishes, then that’s enough. 

Not quite _everything_ he wants, no, but it’s definitely enough.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for slight overindulgence with alcohol.

“Ooph, now what?” Clint asks, dropping down onto the couch with that pleasant, heavy feeling you get after eating a good meal in a relaxing, safe environment. 

Phil snorts in his general direction, still drying his hands at the kitchen sink where he’d been putting away the last frying pan leftover from breakfast. 

“Don’t expect me to entertain you all weekend Barton,” he warns, and Clint grins at him just to cover all the dirty thoughts that immediately race through his mind and try to come up out of his mouth without his permission. “You’re not five.” 

“Hah, still leaves all the fun grown-up things we could do!” he chirps. 

_Oops..._

Phil just rolls his eyes and throws the towel at his head though, so maybe that’s ok. Clint’s a flirt anyway – it's hardly the first time he’s propositioned the man. Just, after this morning... 

He thought maybe he’d overstepped a little. 

When he’d woken up all warm and safe with Phil snuggled around him, it was like the best thing that had ever happened. He’d honestly thought that he’d been dreaming, otherwise he never would’ve rolled closer and started murmuring about how nice it felt. 

At least he’d woken up before he’d started begging for... other things. 

“I’ve got some paperwork to finish for Fury, so you’ll have to satisfy yourself with more cartoons,” Phil says, swiping his tablet off the island and walking into the living room toward him at that slow, rolling prowl Clint loves so much, the one he falls into when he’s being lazy and wearing jeans and doesn’t realize that he’s still all controlled power, like a panther. 

Swallowing hard, he turns away and starts digging around the cushions for the remote, coming up triumphant and clicking on the tv as Phil sits down on the end of the couch opposite him. He finds a marathon of the original Looney Tunes on Boomerang (thank god Nat springs for American cable – he doesn’t want to know how she does it) and settles in, opens his mouth to make a comment about how maybe SHIELD could take some ideas from the coyote, but Phil cuts him off before he can even start. 

“No!” he says sternly, his eyes on the tablet in his hands even as the giant ACME slingshot-plot goes horribly wrong. “They never work, so behave. Let me finish this and I’ll play cards or something with you when I’m done.” 

Smiling, happy enough with the compromise, Clint gets comfortable with his ankle up on the edge of the coffee table and turns back to the cartoons. It’s not so bad really, being shut up with Phil. Even though he’s got this stupid crush and apparently the confinement is supposed to drive him crazy enough to crack, he doesn’t really want to get away all that badly. Him and Phil get along really well – that's half the problem – and it’s not exactly a hardship to spend a weekend with him. They play off each other well, know when to be quiet or lend each other support or distract each other with a bad joke. 

It helps that he’s pretty to look at too, and Clint’s got the eyesight that he can drink his fill from the corner of his eye while appearing to be absorbed by Buggs and Daffy and the Tasmanian Devil. Eventually Phil does finish whatever work he’s doing – hopefully writing Clint and Nat’s after-action reports for them – and puts the tablet away, bringing glasses of ice water along with a deck of cards he’s tucked into his breast pocket. Clint loves him like this, all relaxed, button-down still on but open over a t-shirt and jeans, sleeves rolled up. 

That is, um... 

Aw what the hell, he said what he said. 

Er... _thought._

Whatever. 

They play a couple hands of Speed and Egyptian Rat Screw, and an endless round of War. Phil chooses a game of two-man Solitaire next cause he’s a total dork, and Clint pushes his luck suggesting strip poker after that. Phil just points out that they’d need more people and deals a hand of Go Fish. They both cheat, of course they both cheat, and Clint’s genuinely not sure if the deck started out with five aces or four, but it doesn’t matter. It’s easy and it’s comfortable and it’s fun in the way that spending the day doing nothing with your best friend is, and around four o-clock when the air conditioning kicks on they switch from cards to the battered Monopoly set Nat had stashed in the top of the linen closet. The pieces are all substituted except for the Scottie dog – a bullet casing from Morocco here, a sand dollar from Antigua there – and Phil snatches the arrowhead from Brazil for himself. 

He rubs his thumb over it with a care that Clint recognizes and more than once has dreamed of having lavished on himself. He doesn’t know what that means – if it means anything at all – but Phil seems to shrug off the moment as he rolls the dice to start the game and sets about strategically acquiring Park Place. 

There’s a strange mood in the apartment for the rest of the evening. Clint thinks maybe it comes from being locked in, unable to leave, heavy but soft all at once. He hasn’t thought once about finding a way out, doesn’t really want to, and the way Phil laughs as they manage to cobble together a pizza for dinner suggests that maybe he doesn’t mind being stuck here so much either. There are a couple bottles of good wine in a rack on the counter and Phil uncorks one with a _pop_ despite Clint’s panicked headshaking, offering up a simple _'serves her right’_ when he squeaks with panic. 

It’s worth the risk – it’s really good wine – and tastes even better with the pizza than beer does. 

“That’s because you drink swill,” Phi points out when Clint voices this opinion, both of them sacked out on the couch in front of _Home Alone,_ the only spy-type movie either of them can actually enjoy. 

What, it’s the most realistic ok? 

“I drink _cheap,”_ Clint argues, stuffing another bite of pizza into his mouth. “I’m not gonna spend a ton of money on craft beer when I don’t know what it’s gonna taste like.” 

Phil lifts his eyebrows, hums and wobbles his head back and forth. 

“Fair,” he allows, leaning up from his seat to empty the last of the bottle into their glasses. “I’ll take you to a tasting some time, so you can find some you like. Save you from all the Bud Light Lime.” 

“Um, excuse you, Corona,” Clint yips offendedly. “I’m not in _college._ And anyway, I thought tastings were for this stuff.” 

Gesturing with his glass, he takes a sip and decides that even if it _was_ wine instead of beer he’d totally go, especially if it was with Phil. 

“They do craft beer tastings too,” Phil replies. “I went to one in Chicago where I tasted this oatmeal chocolate stout...” 

“Chocolate beer?” Clint interrupts disbelievingly. 

“Sooooo good,” Phil groans, and suddenly Clint’s giggling and flushed, realizing that he’s starting to slide toward tipsy. 

Aw what the hell, he doesn’t care. 

He’s with Phil, who’s safe and trustworthy, in Natasha’s safe house, which is also safe and trustworthy, and he’s having fun. 

“We should do that some time,” he says, getting to his feet, cheeks hot. “Even if it’s more wine. This stuff is _really_ good. I’m getting another one.” 

“We shouldn’t,” Phil calls, but it’s a pretty weak protest to Clint’s ears, especially since he’s already in the kitchen with corkscrew in hand. “Open the Shiraz – there's dark chocolate ice cream in the freezer.” 

Clint snickers, then slaps a hand over his mouth, because knowing Nat she’s probably got the place bugged and will hurt them both for eating her ice cream. 

_And_ drinking her wine. 

Shrugging, Clint decides to take a page from Phil’s book and works the cork out of the bottle. 

Serves her right for locking him in. 

Then again... 

Well, he _is_ having a pretty good night. 

Heading back into the living room, he puts the bottle down carefully on the coffee table before lowering himself onto the floor beside it, turned toward Phil who’s lounging in the corner of the couch. 

“Wanna play Never Have I Ever?” he asks, jerking his chin toward the tv where movie credits are starting to roll. “The sequel’s not as good.” 

“The sequels are never as good,” Phil snorts, rolling his eyes. “Don’t you think we know each other too well for that?” 

“Think you know all my secrets?” Clint asks with a smirk, suddenly feeling quite daring, quite brave. 

Phil looks him over carefully, then snickers. 

“No, but I _definitely_ know you don’t know all of mine,” he says, rolling forward off the couch to kneel on the other side of the coffee table. 

He’s leaning forward so intently that for a minute Clint thinks he’s gonna... 

...reach past him for the bottle and pour them each another full glass of wine. 

Right. 

“Never-have-I-ever stuck my chewing gum under a desk,” Phil deadpans, pulling his own glass toward him. 

“Oh, is that how we’re going to play?” Clint asks sweetly, narrowing his eyes as he drops his head to sip from the rim of the glass still sitting on the table. 

It’s too full – if he picks it up he’ll slosh, and there’s... something not quite right about that. 

“So it _was_ you.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Clint hums. “Never-have-I-ever watched an episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians.” 

Phil glares but takes a slug of his own all the same. 

“Never-have-I-ever sung the same Pink song for three weeks straight.” 

“Fuck you, Pink’s a queen.” 

“Oh, I’m not arguing that, I just think you’re limiting yourself with _Trouble._ When she’s putting out songs like _Perfect_ you...” 

Clint stares, stunned, because Phil had looked away pretty quick there as he was trailing off and the tips of his ears are looking a little red. He knows that song too, of course he does, but why... 

He gives the wine bottle a good side-eye, then shrugs and lifts his glass for a good gulp. Looking Phil up and down, noting the slight flush and the way he’s leaning on the table, forearms bare, he decides to be mean, because his brain is getting a little stupid at this point and he wouldn’t mind seeing more of that nice, rosy color on Phil. 

Maybe seeing how far it can go down his chest... 

“Never-have-I-ever gotten a hard-on over paperwork.” 

And well, he doesn’t _mean_ to say it, but he’d meant it as a joke when he did. 

Just something to get Phil to blush. 

He doesn’t expect him to actually admit it, but Phil just snorts, rolls his eyes and takes a hearty swallow. 

“Never-have-I-ever gotten a hard-on over a _weapon,”_ he counters smartly. 

Clint bursts into giggles and drains the rest of his glass in one go before shoving a sloppy hand in Phil’s direction, pushing his glass up and forcing him to finish his own. 

“Saw the way you looked at my new recurve that time,” he teases. 

And _oh._

_There’s that pretty color again._

It _does_ go all the way down. 

Well, past Phil’s collar at least, where he’s got the top two buttons undone at his throat, and Clint’s maybe staring as Phil tips his head back and finishes off his wine, maybe wants to lick him... right... there... 

“You... what?” 

“What?” Clint yelps, startling backward. 

Phil’s staring at him looking flushed and glassy-eyed and... and _hopeful,_ and Clint can feel something terrifying and hopeful thundering in his own chest. He glares at the bottle of wine on the coffee table like it’s betrayed him, and he opens his mouth to deny that he’d said anything out loud, but before he can get a word in edgewise his mouth is full of Phil’s tongue. 

He’s not expecting it, obviously. 

He thinks it’s fair to cut himself a little slack for that. 

Still, only about 2.5 milliseconds pass before _stunned silly_ flashes into _fucking fantastic_ and he fists his hand in Phil’s shirt, practically hauling him across the coffee table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pink is a QUEEN and baby Jeremy Renner was in the music video for her song Trouble Do yourself a favor and go watch it!!


	4. Chapter 4

It’s good. 

It’s really freaking good. 

Hot and messy and sharp, all tongues and teeth and biting at each other as they try to get closer with the coffee table still between them. 

Clint’s heart is pounding in his chest and his eyes are closed and all he can smell and hear and feel is Phil in front of him the way he’s always wanted, tasting like wine and trust and promises. 

_“You’re drunk,”_ Clint practically whimpers, pulling back a little as Phil chases his mouth. 

“You're drunk,” he huffs, and the fact that he’s arguing this by basically copycatting Clint kinda proves his point. 

“I’m not...” he automatically begins to protest, but he kinda loses the thread of the sentence, because yeah, he really is, and Phil’s kissing at the corners of his mouth. 

“Yeah you are,” he insists, sitting back on his heels and looking at Clint calmly, even though he’s all mussed and pink-cheeked. 

“So we both are.” 

“Definitely.” 

“I...” 

But then they’re kissing again, and he doesn’t even know who started it. 

They probably shouldn’t be, he knows that. If they’re drunk there’s the whole consent thing, and damn Natasha for even doing it. He knows this will probably break him in the morning, when things have all cooled off, and there’s no way it isn’t going to hurt; either now having to force himself to push Phil back or tomorrow, when Phil will probably return the favor. 

So really, in the end it doesn’t matter, cause it’s _gonna_ hurt, guaranteed, and it’s not just about him. 

Phil’s never broken Clint’s trust and he won’t repay him by taking advantage now. 

“Phil, stop, wait a minute,” he murmurs, forcing the words out as he flattens his hands against Phil’s chest, gently pushing him back and not really having to try, because he’s already pulling away and god, that _sucks._ “Damn, I’d never thought I’d ever tell you to _stop_ kissing me, but if we’re both drunk maybe we shouldn’t...” 

“I... oh. Right, sorry,” Phil mumbles, looking startled as color flares across his cheeks. Biting his lip, he drops his gaze, drops his whole head. “Shit, I’m sorry Clint. I shouldn’t have... I shouldn’t have done that. I... I think maybe Natasha drugged that wine...” 

Glaring at the bottle, his head jerks up and he looks at Clint with wide, panicked eyes. 

“Not that that’s any excuse, I just...” 

“Nat _definitely_ drugged that wine,” Clint nods along, his heart sinking just a little bit as all the happy goes out of him, _everything_ sinking – his gaze, his shoulders, his spirits. The crash feels more familiar than the last few minutes’ ecstasy. “No way I’d be having a dream this good if she hadn’t.” 

Cause that’s what it has to be right? 

A dream? 

He must’ve passed out on the couch – makes total sense that he’d be dreaming about something this amazing only to have it all go to hell on him when his conscience or his rationality or whatever the hell kicks back in, or else he’s awake and Phil’s only kissed him because _he’s_ drunk and that’s maybe worse... 

“What?” 

“I mean I guess I can’t blame her,” he says dully, shrugging, wondering why he’s even explaining himself. “She was sick of hearing me pine over you and she warned me she’d do something horrible about it if I didn’t, but I...” 

“Clint stop.” 

Clint blinks, shocked by the insistence in Phil’s voice, the look on his face. 

It’s a look he’s seen before, so intense, so focused, like he’s just figured out the key to a mission and all that joyful, aggressive relief is rushing through him and what... 

“She warned you?” he asks intently. 

“Um... yeah?” Clint answers warily, hopeful and somehow scared of that look being aimed in his direction. 

Phil’s head tilts just a little and a soft, wondrous sort of smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. 

“She warned me too.” 

“She...” Clint stumbles, “So, wait, you...” 

“Yeah,” Phil huffs, just a stupid, astonished chuckle. 

“I... really?” 

“Really,” he confirms. “I mean, yes, that’s... why I kissed you. I...” 

But he trails off, and now they’re just staring at each other in disbelief, both of them leaning forward so hard that the table is cutting into both their bellies, arms braced to keep them balanced. Clint can hardly believe what he’s hearing, a hot, sharp hope pushing up inside his chest and... 

And then they’re both bursting into giggles. 

“We are really drunk,” Clint snickers as they collapse onto their elbows, still leaning forward, close enough to press their foreheads together. 

“Yes we are,” Phil agrees, smiling softly at him as he stares into Clint’s eyes, holds his gaze. And there’s something in his eyes like awe, like disbelief. 

“Does that mean no more kissing?” Clint asks mournfully. 

“Do you _want_ more kissing?” 

“I want _all_ the kissing!” he demands in a burst of excitement. “Other stuff too! But we are _really_ drunk. But, I mean... we did both stop.” 

Phil furrows his brow, tilts his head, and yeah, Clint does really want to kiss him. 

“I mean, you said stop and I stopped right?” he elaborates hopefully. “And I said stop and you stopped. So maybe we’re not _that_ drunk?” 

Phil snorts a laugh. 

“No, we’re really drunk,” he argues. 

“Yeah, but kissing,” Clint whines. 

Phil chews his lip a minute and Clint’s brain does that record-scratch sound. 

“Just kissing?” he asks, and Clint nods his head so hard it hurts. 

“Just kissing,” he promises eagerly. 

Phil narrows his eyes, gives him a suspicious look, and Clint puts on his most innocent expression. Phil’s face softens a little, and something in his chest goes melty cause Clint’s pretty sure he’s seen that look before but hadn’t realized what it meant, hadn’t realized it was being directed at him that way... 

But then he’s blinking, cause Phil’s on his feet and just a little wobbly, holding out his hand to help Clint up. It’s warm and steady in his grip, hauling him up with a strength and a stability he shouldn’t have given... well, whatever Nat had spiked them with, but Phil’s never been anything but stable and steady where Clint’s concerned, so it’s more choice than drunkenness when he sways in close and cuddles up all along Phil’s front. 

“Just kissing,” he reminds him as Clint snuggles against his chest, nuzzles in underneath his chin. 

“Yeah, but more than that right?” he mumbles, a little more truth and vulnerability wriggling its way out of him. “It’s... it’s a lot more than that right?” 

Phil goes still against him and Clint pulls back sharply, his heart stuttering when he sees hope instead of wariness on Phil’s face. 

“I... you want it to be more?” he asks carefully, glancing quickly around the room. “Not... not just a night locked in a safehouse?” 

“No,” Clint answers simply. “Not cause I’m drunk, or bored, or stuck in a safehouse. Cause I _want_ more.” 

The smile that splits Phil’s face lights Clint up from the inside out, and the next thing he knows they’re kissing again, a lot harder and hotter than before. They both seem to have forgotten the just-kissing rule, because they’re slowly walking each other up the hallway toward the bedroom, hands gripping and groping everywhere, but he thinks it’s probably ok because it seems like they’re more trying to keep each other close than anything. 

Eventually the backs of his knees bump the bed and he topples over, dragging Phil down with him so that they land side-by-side, facing each other so they can still keep kissing. His hands are petting Phil’s chest over his shirt and Phil’s hands are clenched tight around his belt, pulling him closer, closer, and Clint’s licking into his mouth like he wants to swallow him down alive, all heat and heartbeats, and then... 

And then suddenly everything is soft, quiet, easy. 

They’re breathing against each other, pressing little smooches to cheeks and chin and jaw as their racing hearts slow and their hands gentle, and then they’re both drifting off to sleep curled closer than they’ve ever been before.

**AVAVA**

Phil wakes up with a gentle throbbing at the back of his skull that’s more of a warning than a full-blown headache. It takes him a minute to remember where he is, to realize why he feels weighed down and overheated, but when he does it jolts through his system like electricity. Memories of Clint and of kissing and of laughing like idiots flood his brain in an unorganized tangle, and for all of second he can’t breathe, but then the body on top of him shifts and he’s slammed back into his own like being hit by a truck.

He’s lying on his back in the middle of Natasha Romanov’s bed, with a sleepy Clint Barton curled up on top of him. 

Letting out a stunned, shaky breath, he takes stock of the situation, of the way that Clint has one arm wrapped around Phil’s waist and his head resting on Phil’s shoulder, snuffling and grumbling and muttering about it being too early. He’s warm and heavy and perfect pressed all close, and as the memories start to sort themselves into order again, Phil has to bite back a groan. 

_Natasha._

In her defense she’d warned him. 

He never should have opened that first bottle of wine – that was a punishable offense in any situation, let alone one where she’s become so fed up with his nonsense that she’s locked him inside a safe house with Clint Barton. Whatever she’d spiked it with hadn’t been enough to give him a full-blown hangover, just enough to lower his inhibitions so far that he would... he would... 

_Oh god, what had he said?_

“Don’t,” Clint mumbles sleepily, burying his face in Phil’s shirt as he starts to shift, preparing to pull away. “Don’t get up yet. Don’t want it over yet.” 

Phil’s heart thumps hard, Clint’s words like a key in a lock, opening the doors for all the rest of the night to come surging back, the kissing and the petting and the heat, but more importantly the tight grip, the hanging on, the holding close. Memories of confessions; about pining and warnings and threats, and wanting more. 

In a rush of courage, Phil pushes Clint off him and over onto his back, ignoring the flinch and the flash of hurt and following after, straddling his hips and staring down at him from where he’s braced his hands on either side of Clint’s head. He’s wary now, looking up at Phil like he isn’t sure what’s about to happen, and he has to breathe for a minute and do an assessment, examine Clint’s expression for fear and reassure himself when he doesn’t find it. 

“We’re not drunk anymore,” he says slowly, and Clint eyes him up and down as best he can from his position underneath him, like he isn’t sure how true that statement is. 

“No,” he says slowly, challengingly, “We’re _not_ drunk anymore, no thanks to fucking _Nat._ So?” 

“So,” Phil breathes, gathering his courage back up again, remembering Clint’s boyish eagerness from the night before, “I still want all the kisses.” 

Clint blinks at him, opens and closes his mouth a few times, and if Phil weren’t terrified right now he’d make a crack about finally rendering him speechless, but he can hardly breathe. 

Clint licks his lips nervously, raises one hand to toy with the edge of Phil’s shirt where it’s hanging down away from his stomach. 

“All the kisses?” he asks, hesitant and mumbling as his cheeks pink and his eyes drop, before he drags them up to meet Phil’s gaze again. 

“All the kisses,” he confirms. 

“Other things too?” 

Phil barks a startled laugh, then quickly leans down and cups Clint’s face between his hands, giving him a long, hard kiss square on the mouth. 

“Other things too,” he promises. 

Clint’s chest heaves underneath him as he lets out a huge, whoofing breath, goes slack against the sheets. 

“Oh thank god,” he groaned, throwing one arm over his eyes. “You have no idea how much it would have sucked if last night hadn’t worked out. You know she did this on purpose right?” 

Phil chuckles, sitting back on his heels and consequently on Clint’s hips. 

“At least she had a good reason,” he allows. “I suppose from her point of view, knowing both sides of the story, well... she knew better than we did.” 

“Phil,” Clint says flatly, moving his arm to glare at him. “She locked us in her apartment.” 

“Better than the janitor’s closet,” he shrugs. 

“She threatened you with that too?” 

“Several times.” 

“She drugged us!” Clint yelps indignantly, flailing his arm and wriggling, and there’s no way he hasn’t noticed that they’re both starting to take an interest in their positions. “There’s _no way_ we got that drunk off two measly bottles of wine!” 

“That _was_ a bit underhanded,” Phil muses, settling his weight a little heavier onto Clint’s hips, easing backward just a little and enjoying the choked little sound it earns him, the sudden stillness in the archer’s body. “Though I can’t say as I blame her. Can’t argue with her results.” 

“I guess not,” Clint says slowly, a half-sly, half-suspicious gleam coming into his eyes as his hands come up to rest on Phil’s thighs. “Still...” 

“Still,” he agrees. “You wanna mess with her?”


	5. Chapter 5

He’s perfect. 

God he’s perfect and Clint can hardly breathe with it, a hot, huge sun swelling up hard in his chest and pushing out from the center of him all bright and shiny and beautiful. A grin stretches his mouth so wide that when he grab’s Phil’s face in both hands and pulls him down for a kiss he almost flubs it, but they're laughing together and smooching and rolling around in the sheets and then suddenly Clint is on top, straddling Phil’s chest and staring down at him with his heart in his eyes. 

“You’re perfect,” he says, and Phil huffs a laugh, smirking at him. 

“Because I want to prank Natasha?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” Clint replies. “Cause it’ll go horribly and we both know it, but you’d do it anyway. You’d let _me_ do it anyway.” 

“Because it would make you happy,” Phil says softly, brushing his thumb against Clint’s ankle, and yes, oh, yes. 

_“You_ make me happy,” he murmurs, and Phil’s smirk softens into a smile, something warm and sweet. 

He reaches up and slides his hands into Clint’s hair, urges him down and kisses him gently, and Clint melts just a little. Phil’s lips peck at the corner of his mouth, nibble along his jaw to his ear, and Clint’s belly goes all tight and trembly as he reaches that spot behind his ear that really gets him... 

“But it _would_ go horribly.” 

Clint snorts and bumps him hard with his chin, nuzzling roughly like a cat. 

“Still gonna do it,” he mumbles obstinately, ducking down under Phil’s chin to breathe in the scent of him, to scrape his teeth against his throat and press his tongue against Phil’s pulse, taste him. 

He sucks in a sharp gasp at the contact and his hands come up to grip Clint’s waist lightly, and yeah, Clint would definitely like to hear that sound again, to _make him_ make that sound again. 

“She’d probably kill us,” Phil muses, trying to sound unaffected despite the way his breathing is getting a little rough as Clint mouths at his throat. “She was already fed up with us, and we did drink all her wine...” 

“Mmm, that’s why I’m gonna enjoy this first,” Clint mumbles, and it’s a promise he makes in a gravelly, husky tone that sends a shiver down both their spines. 

“Clint,” Phil breathes, his hands tightening around Clint’s hips. “You...” 

But Clint’s already flattening his body on top of Phil’s, pressing himself down, letting them both feel his weight and his arousal before dragging himself lower, settling on his belly between Phil’s legs with a perfect view up the length of his body. 

Phil stares down at Clint looking a little shocked and a lot turned on, cheeks flushed, pupils blown, bottom lip swollen, and it’s the best look Clint thinks he’s ever seen on his face – and that includes the quietly confident _‘bout-to-fuck-you-up_ look he gets sometimes when the bad guys are being particularly annoying. 

Although... Clint thinks maybe he’d like that look aimed at himself. 

He thinks that could be a good thing. 

“You don’t have to,” Phil says, but he swallows hard enough to make his throat ripple and Clint grins sharply. 

“Want to,” he says, turning his face toward Phil’s inner thigh and pressing his face to the warm skin he finds there. Phil must have kicked off his pants in the night – they're both down to t-shirts and underwear. “If you want.” 

Phil groans and drops his head back onto the pillow, throwing his arms out to the sides and pressing his heels to the bed so that his hips squirm. 

“I want _you,_ Clint,” he huffs, staring up at the ceiling. “Any way I can have you.” 

And well... 

He just says it so softly and sweetly and honestly, what else is Clint supposed to do except press a kiss to his knee, wrap an arm around his leg and snuggle up against it, his face hidden against Phil’s hip. 

It’s a nice moment, quiet and warm and loving, shit, _loving,_ Phil’s hand coming down to pet his hair softly, at least until he tries to shift without being too obvious about it and Clint laughs. He nips his thigh sharply just to get Phil to growl at him, a sound that zips right through him to all the interesting places, then decides to just dive in and buries his face between Phil’s legs. He gets a jerk and a yelp for his trouble and grins against the hollow of Phil’s hip, breathing in deep to get the smell of him all the way down to his core. 

It’s an instinctive thing, a silly thing, but... 

He wants to keep him. 

Briefly distracted by that line of thinking, by the disbelief and the bright, swelling hope, he refocuses just in time to find himself lipping gently at the bulge in Phil’s briefs, hot and getting harder. He moans deep in his chest and rubs his cheek against it like a cat, just breathing, enjoying the heat and the scent and the hemmed-in feeling he’s getting from Phil’s knees being drawn up around him. As nice as it is, he eventually gets bored and tugs at the waistband of Phil’s underwear till he shifts his weight and helps him get them off, and then... 

Well. 

Let’s just say he’d be smirking smugly if his mouth weren’t otherwise occupied. 

Phil’s amazingly responsive underneath him as he gets his first taste, gasping and whimpering and groaning out Clint’s name, wriggling and squirming and gripping at his shoulders, his hair. He grabs on tight for the briefest seconds before letting go, like he can’t help himself, like he has to _remember_ himself, and it’s maybe the best thing that’s ever happened to Clint in his whole life. Agent Coulson is so buttoned-up, so shut-down and in-control that this is maybe the coolest thing ever, and Clint’s kinda having trouble doing his best work he’s so giddy with it. 

Luckily his good is fucking fantastic, so his _stupid-happy-distracted_ is still pretty good in itself. 

Supporting evidence – less than five minutes later Phil is gasping and squirming and tugging on his shoulders, pulling him up to lay on top of him. He’s panting, his heart pounding hard enough that Clint can feel it underneath him, and he’s groping Clint’s biceps like he’s wanted to for a long time so Clint flexes for him happily as Phil’s legs snake up around his waist to drag him closer. 

“ ‘S good, it’s so good,” he breathes against the side of Clint’s neck, sucking at the pulse point in his throat. _“Clint...”_

“Yeah, yeah, I got you...” he huffs, getting a hand between them to shove his underwear down awkwardly over one hip, just enough to get their hard, hot cocks together. 

Phil growls at him, licks his palm in an absolutely filthy display and wraps his fingers around the both of them with a squeeze and a slide that nearly makes Clint swallow his tongue. His brain sort of whites out for a second and he gasps hard, his hips stuttering against Phil’s, and he braces one forearm against the mattress, supporting his upper-body so he can look down at their cocks sliding in and out of his fist. Chest heaving, he whines hard and drops his forehead to Phil’s, his eyes squeezed tight shut. 

“I’ve missed you,” Phil murmurs, pushing the words against his mouth as his hips start to buck up against Clint’s. “How have I missed you?” 

“I know,” Clint promises, and it doesn’t make any sense but it totally does. “I know, me too.” 

And fuck, he’s crying. 

He’s... he’s literally crying, hot tears leaking down his cheeks and he buries his face in the curve of Phil’s neck, sucking hard at the base of his throat. 

He’s in love and he knows it, and it’s a really bad time to say that out loud but he can feel it in his chest and in the pit of his stomach and in the way that his belly clenches and tightens and then they’re both racing each other to the edge, trembling and gasping and holding on tight until they spill all over each other and collapse in a sweaty, shaky, giggly mess. 

Phil’s huffing little laughs with each breath that sound like he can’t quite believe what just happened, where he is, and Clint’s making a sound like half-hysterical hiccoughs, and he’s so happy he’s not sure he can breathe. He swipes at his cheeks with the backs of his wrists, doesn’t understand why he’s still crying cause he feels _so freaking happy_ right now, but then Phil’s rolling onto his sides and kissing him and yeah, everything’s good. 

Phil stares down at him with soft eyes, cups his cheek in his hand and swipes a tear track away with his thumb. 

“You know she probably stuffed that nightstand with lube and condoms, right?” 

Clint snorts, barks a laugh and wraps his arms around Phil’s shoulders, pulling him down for a ridiculous, not-really-naked, perfect hug. 

“Come on,” Phil says, pressing a kiss to his cheek and pushing himself up. “Let’s get the sheets washed before she gets back.”

**AVAVA**

When the front door finally opens six hours later, the sheets are back on the bed and the covers are all neat and straight, and Clint and Phil are sitting at opposite ends of the couch with their feet up on the coffee table, an American baseball game playing on the television. Natasha lets herself in like she’s not expecting anything, putting her shoes away in the closet along with the sunglasses and the duffel-sized purse she’d left with. Clint and Phil watch her silently with narrowed eyes, and Clint wonders if she can feel their feigned irritation.

Strolling into the kitchen with her head high - because the Widow doesn’t know the meaning of _walk of shame_ \- she comes back with a bottle of Gatorade that she’s already swigged half of and leans casually against the door jam, watching the Detroit Tigers crush the Orioles. 

Clint knows she won’t be the one to break the silence, but honestly he expects it to be him, not Phil. 

“Did you enjoy your weekend Agent Romanov?” he asks coolly, and Clint has to bite the inside of his cheek hard to stop a smile, because, _aww,_ he’s pranking Nat for him! 

Well, trying anyway - Clint doesn’t actually think it’ll really work in the end, but it’s fun and it’s sweet of him to try. 

“Very much, thank you,” she says sweetly, turning on the two of them with a smile like chilled arsenic. “Did you?” 

They both give her blank, unimpressed looks in response and she snorts in their faces - the Black Widow literally snort-laughs in their faces. 

“So you’re telling me you _didn’t_ enjoy your weekend alone,” she muses, pushing herself off the door jamb and circling slowly around behind the couch. 

“You locked us in your apartment Natasha,” Phil points out coolly, and Clint has to give him a lot of credit for staying face-forward, keeping his eyes on the tv, cause his own skin is crawling with Natasha slipping around behind him. 

“I’m _sure_ you could have found _something_ to keep you occupied,” she says. “Some couple’s activity perhaps.” 

“Yeah, cooking after a long-ass day because we couldn’t even pick up a pizza,” Clint grumbles, forcing himself not to flinch as she passes him, close enough that he can feel the breeze against the fine hair standing up on the back of his neck. 

Natasha shoots them both a glare as she rounds back in front of them on the other side of the room, reaches out with a single hand and slides the window open. Clint’s stomach sinks and he feels his eyes go wide as he realizes that he hadn’t even _thought_ to try the windows, not even the one that led to the convenient, well-maintained fire escape down the side of the building. 

At the exact same time, the thought hits him that he’s glad he hadn’t. 

Still, he doesn’t cave. 

“Ради Бога,” she curses in Russian, “For God’s sake. Cut the crap you two.” 

Clint and Phil glance at each other, then back at Nat, who’s rolling her eyes and looking utterly disgusted. 

“No more whining,” she warns seriously, pointing one sharply-manicured finger between them. “No more bitching and moaning, no more _pining._ I’ve had enough – being stuck up here obviously worked for both of you so I expect _gratitude,_ not complaints! I will also accept cheesecake.” 

“Wait, how...” Clint yelps, confirming her suspicions, if they _were_ suspicions (unlikely), before he can even think. 

She stops on her way back into the kitchen, turns to them with that same unimpressed look. 

“My wine is gone, and your shirt’s on inside out, dork,” she says. 

“That’s not exactly unusual,” Phil says dryly, and Clint sticks his tongue out at him. 

“No,” Natasha admits, “But you’ll need to button your collar before we’re picked up this afternoon if you don’t want to set the gossip mill grinding Agent Coulson.” 

And with that one last coolly confident reply, she leaves them alone to question their life choices. 

For a moment they simply sit there in silence, just gazing at each other, stunned like they’d both thought they’d actually get away with something that displeased Natasha Romanov, then Phil’s hand slides slowly up his own chest toward his throat, stopping over his heart so that he can tap his thumb against the dark bruise just peeping out of his open collar. 

“There's no way you didn’t see that _Hawkeye,”_ he says, his eyes narrowed. 

“Yeah, no,” Clint admits, a slow, sappy smile spreading across his face. “I totally did. I just...” 

He falls quiet, chews his bottom lip, and Phil tilts his head, his expression going soft. 

“What?” he asks gently, and Clint’s heart goes gooey in his chest. 

“I kinda like it.” 

“Oh,” Phil breathes, like he... like he hadn’t hoped for that much. “I... Me too.” 

“Sooo...” Clint hedges, because there’s still a sense of incredulity, of disbelief. “We’re definitely gonna do this again right? Keep doing it?” 

“Definitely,” Phil says with a grin, eyes going bright and almost mischievous. “But maybe dinner too?” 

“Yeah,” Clint agrees, smile wide and all the tension just... gone, replaced by sheer, brilliant joy. “Dinner too.” 

“Oh my god, you two are hopeless!” Natasha groans from the next room, and Clint and Phil both collapse against each other into beautiful, helpless laughter.


End file.
